Still Watching You
by MyelleWhite
Summary: Holmes is arrested for Watson's murder and believes that he deserves to hang. Though he's dead, Watson is watching and must proove him innocent before it's too late. Losely based on a play written in 1893 by Charles Rogers.
1. Chapter 1

**PLEASE READ: **This is my second of two (so far) Sherlock Holmes stories that I have online. I have about twelve more to type up to post on fanfiction. And hey, for anyone who watches Fringe or the Mentalist, I've written a couple stories for each.

So, this story is about Watson dying and Holmes dealing with it. In this particular story, we get a closer look at the bond between them that made them like brothers. This story does not have them as a couple...though those stories are very interesting sometimes.

This story can be read as a play, really, because it lacks much description. It's actually based on a play. For any die-hard Holmes fan, such as myself, I recommend looking into he past of our great detective. You will find numerous plays, movies, television shows and novels based on Holmes. This story is based on the 1893 play by Charles Rogers entitled "Sherlock Holmes." (Real original, right? I thought so too.) The play has a killer who kidnaps Watson and Holmes is arrested for his supposed murder. After escaping from prison, Holmes searches to find Watson's kidnapper (and the real murderer, as we find) to avenge his friend and prove himself innocent.

So, please enjoy my story (play) and forgive me for the most of it being dialogue.

-Myelle White

"I'd be lost without my Boswell."Holmes said, pacing his rooms at 221b Baker Street.

He talked aloud to assure himself he was indeed still here...on Earth. Without Watson.

"My Boswell."

Watson's funeral was tomorrow. Naturally, Holmes hadn't moved from his rooms since he first heard the news.

_"Oh, Lestrade come in! Watson will be here in a moment and then we're off on the case! The game is afoot, Inspector." Holmes said happily._

_"Uh, Holmes, there's something I need to tell you. I don't quite know how to do it."_

_"The case? Oh, Lestrade, leave it all to me. You an have the credit, of course, but I want to solve it. For years I've been waiting on a puzzle as perfect as this one. Nothing could spoil my day, my dear fellow. Now, where the deuce is Watson at? He should have been here already. It's not very kind of him to keep us waiting."_

_"Holmes, please stop and listen."_

_"Anything you say."_

_"Watson isn't coming."_

_"Well why not? How could be so busy as to miss a case like this? I tell you, Inspector, I won't let him tell the public this little story if he doesn't bother to show up-"_

_Lestrade grew impatient and he blurted out the delicate news to get Holmes to stop talking._

_"Watson is dead!" he yelled, "Holmes, I've put new men on the case and they'll handle it."_

_The detective's face fell immediately._

_"This is a rather cruel joke. How could you say that? Of course Watson is not dead. If you didn't want me on the case-"_

_"For God's sake, Holmes, I swear to you that Watson is-"_

_"Don't you dare say it!"_

_"I'm sorry."_

_"So he- no! No, no, no." He said quickly. He felt like crying but he didn't dare. Lestrade seemed to notice this. The man picked the most inopportune time to become observant._

_"You can cry, Holmes. I fully understand. The whole of Scotland Yard sends you their sympathies."_

_"I'm not going to cry, Lestrade. Now, since there is no case, I don't see what the point in your presence here is any longer. Please leave."_

_Lestrade gave an empathetic look at the man then walked away. Holmes heard him tell Mrs. Hudson the news and to keep and to eye on Holmes._

"It's not fair."

"Mr. Holmes, I've brought your tea." said Mrs Hudson as she walked into the room. Her eyes were still wet with tears and she held a tissue in her hand.

"Mrs. Hudson, surely you cannot still be crying?"

"Indeed I am. I guess everyone deals with grief in separate ways but I would have figured you'd cry too. He was like a brother to you whether you admit it or not."

"And a son to you, undoubtedly."

"Yes, since his d-"

"Please, don't say it."

She nodded and left his tea.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Watson watched. He figured Holmes couldn't hear him so he didn't try. It would be too painful to not be heard. So he watched as a spirit, a ghost or whatever he was.

He didn't care and he didn't want to find out.

Death took him from his best friend and placed him where he could watch...but from afar. A cruel twist of fate. Watson watched Holmes struggle with his daily life but he never did cry. Was it vain for Watson to think his friend would have cried? He, himself cried when Holmes had fallen over that despicable waterfall. Perhaps his emotionless facade wasn't a facade at all. Perhaps he really didn't care.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Tell me what you think and thank you for the reviews on my other story "the singular case of jack the ripper."

Please review and tell me what you think...also, if you have any suggestions, let me know and I'll weave it into my future chapters.

-Myelle


	2. Chapter 2

Alright, so to HADES...whoever you are, I thank you for the suggestions. I will slow down in my writing and try to linger on the conversations a little more...as you said. Might I suggest you make an account so I can talk to you in messaging rather than in my story? HAHA. Thanks again.

So this chapter gets a little more into our main plot. The first chapter is more of a prologue.

Also, please review at the end of my story and tell me what you think.

-Myelle

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

Holmes picked up his cocaine bottle and the syringe. The sweet drugs-that feeling of innocence and calm-were just around the corner. He could feel it. The seven percent solution moving in his veins. He anticipated the high. It would take his pain and worry along with it as it coursed through him.

"Watson would hate me." He said aloud, though it was almost a whisper. He knew he was betraying Watson, even in death. He felt guilty.

Bringing the needle to the bottle, he hesitated. "I'm sorry, Watson. I know you won't hear, but if you're out there, know that I am indeed very sorry."

Holmes starred at the needle, now full with the liquid which he craved. A drop of the drug flowed down onto his hand. Like a tear drop.

He hadn't yet cried. Holmes figured there must be something wrong with him. The detective was sure that the first time he cried since his childhood would be the day Watson died...his brother, gone. Of course, Holmes was almost certain that with all the drugs, fighting, and starvation that he would be the first to go. What a cruel twist of fate this was.

"Watson is d-"

He couldn't say it. Instead, the needle was brought to his arm but again, he hesitated. If Watson were here...

"He's not here. He's gone."

_Does that make it okay?_

He threw the syringe down upon the table where it sat with his untouched breakfast.

Sighing, he sat down in his chair, awaiting the next day for the funeral. Once the funeral was over he could maybe start dealing with the pain...perhaps cry. Lord, how he wanted to cry...but alas, no tears came.

Holmes was angry now, furious. He wanted his drug, his escape, but was afraid of them. He wanted to cry but fate wouldn't let him. Suddenly, everything in the room looked like a target. Picking up anything he could lay his hands on, Holmes began throwing objects in every direction. Watson wouldn't mind the mess-he was gone now. Mrs. Hudson came up to talk to him but Holmes barely heard a thing. He wasn't even sure she was really there or when she left, though it must have been soon after she arrived because he finally noticed her absence when his breakfast hit a closed door rather than her.

"I wish I were dead." He whispered as he sunk to the floor in exhaustion.

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

Watson watched. He could do only that. And if that is all he could do, then he wouldn't miss a moment. Holmes had destroyed their-_his_-flat and scared poor Mrs. Hudson to death! Holmes had been holding back feelings and they had caught up with him. The doctor had stopped a good many of these "fits" before they had gotten out of hand but he had never really known just how out of hand they could actually get.

This wasn't healthy. It was dangerous for him to be so destructive. It would eventually all turn to self-hatred and Watson wouldn't be able to help.

Watson crossed the room, kneeling beside his friend. Almost instantly, Holmes sprang from his chair, eyeing something on the bookshelf.

_NO! _Watson thought.

Holmes pulled off an entire row of books which were written by Watson, himself. It was a collection of Holmes' favourite cases that Watson had done up in leather bound notebooks for a Christmas gift about seven years ago. Each year since then, Watson would add a new notebook to the shelf.

"Memories die with him." He cried angrily before taking the books off of the shelf and tearing the pages.

Before he could think, Watson spoke. "No! Holmes, the memories can't leave!"

Holmes paused. Watson's heart fluttered.

_Oh, lord, he heard me! Impossible! No, not impossible...improbable. He always told me there was a difference. _

As if nothing had happened, Holmes resumed his task. He only stopped when each ripped paper was safely thrown into the fire. Watson felt his heart burn with the papers. Both men settled into their chairs.

"Lost without my Boswell..." Holmes muttered, sadly. Watson smiled slightly knowing that this one line that Holmes continually repeated, like a mantra, was the last shred of evidence that his friend, indeed, missed him. A part of Watson wanted Holmes to miss him...but he knew that the bigger part of him wanted Holmes to move on and be happy. What was usually a strong, emotionless man was now breeding ground of anger. It would build and build until he would do something really wreckless, and probably dangerous.

Watson remembered only one time when Holmes had shown he cared for him. It was in the case that he later entitled "The three Garridebs." Watson was shot in the leg and before he even fell to the ground, Holmes had nearly killed the criminal by hitting him over the head with the end of his revolver.

_"You're not hurt, Watson? For God's sake, say that you are not hurt!"_

As it turned out, the wound was only a superficial one and Watson was unharmed. For a second, though he remembered what Holmes had looked like, seeing his friend wounded.

_Clear, hard eyes dimmed...firm lips shaking...face set like flint._

It was worth the wound.

He'd swear on his life it had happened. He had heard Watson.

"Impossible, Watson is-"he began "Oh, confound it!"

A knock on the door nearly gave him a heart attack and he yelled for the knocker to enter. Mrs. Hudson came into the room with a tray of food and tea.

"I'm not hungry."

"Now, Mr. Holmes! You've been in here since you heard and you haven't had a bite. Not one! I won't stand for it! We are all grieving, but this is unhealthy and I simply won't allow it to continue any longer. You have to accept that Watson is de-"

Holmes screamed a half human cry to get her to stop.

"Don't! Do not say it, Mrs. Hudson. You can leave now."

"If you don't eat I'll say it. You've got to accept it sometime-"

"If you say it, I'll be forced to kill myself."

"Mr. Holmes, you really ought to deal with your troubles in another way other than destroying your rooms. I know you cared deeply for him-in fact I've never seen anyone so protective of another man in my life! You should have told him how much you thought of him whilst he was alive. In any case, you can't go with this behaviour."

"Your commentary is not needed, woman. Now kindly leave.

In a huff, the good woman finally let Holmes alone, slamming the door behind her. She was a little stung by his unkindness, but didn't take it to heart. She knew Holmes was upset...

She only wished he would've been upset near a park bench rather than the flat.

Okay, so that's the end of the chapter. I already have the next few written so I'll post them soon, but I've got a busy week ahead...

**To HADES:** I sincerely hope this is more like the story you expect. As stated earlier, if it is still a little rushed, let me know. I'm really trying to fix it.

**PLEASE REVIEW! I WANT TO KNOW WHAT YOU THINK!**

-Myelle


	3. Chapter 3

**PLEASE READ: **Thank to everyone who reviewed so far (even if there are only three of you.) Thank you to "nans" and "notimeatall" for reading and reviewing. Come on people-there are tons of you reading but none of you leaving reviews! If you like what you see-review...or review even if you don't

To all my readers-if you want to something to happen in my story-let me know and I'll weave it into the plot. I'm open for suggestions. You can send me a private message or write it in a review! Thanks to all!

(There will be lots of dialogue in this chapter. I hope I kept the words true to the nature of their characters in this chapter, but it was very difficult.)

-Myelle

"Wow, Holmes. You really do care." Watson whispered. Mrs. Hudson's "commentary" had proved just that.

"Why do I hear you? Go away!" Holmes shouted. "Leave me! You're de-"

"Dead, Holmes? I know. Don't remind me."

"Why do I hear you?"

Watson watched his friend look around, trying to find him, evidently. The doctor knew he couldn't possibly be seen but he let Holmes look. The man desperately searched with his eyes across the entire room. He didn't know, however, that Watson was right in front of him.

When Watson saw his eyes fall on the little bottle and syringe on his desk, his heart leapt.

"Don't think about it. You need to stop this."

"You're not real. If you were Watson, you wouldn't even want to see me."

"Holmes, you're being ridiculous." He reasoned, apparently to no avail. Holmes settled into his chair, sinking deep into it in defeat.

"I'm in my old chair." Watson said sympathetically. Holmes nodded and looked over at him, though not seeing him. Clearly, the detective was more than frustrated. He couldn't believe it, but Watson was having a conversation with his friend. Just yesterday, he had thought it impossible.

"So, are you going to answer me or not?"

"What did you ask?"

"Why can I hear you?" he repeated again.

"I don't know, but I'm glad you do. I don't think I could have lived eternity in silence."

"There you are wrong. You were always a quiet man and you wouldn't have to be quiet for eternity anyways. Only until my death."

"Well thankfully it's no longer necessary to wait."

"You sound like something is on your mind, my dear Watson. Pray tell."

"I sound like- ugh, Holmes, how can you be so calm? I don't understand. Obviously there is something on my mind. I'm dead and I'm talking to you. I don't see how you are so composed when not ten minutes ago you ruined your flat!"

"_Our_ flat." Holmes corrected.

"I can't share it with you. I'm gone, Holmes. And while we are on the subject of the flat, i believe you owe Mrs. Hudson an apology."

"Were you here when-"

"I heard all of it. I don't see why you constantly try her patience when she's been nothing but kind to you. She's trying to help."

"So you heard what she said-about you?"

"Every word."

"Damn that woman."

"No! She's a wonderful lady and you should be nicer to her. I'm sorry if I've caused you pain but you can't reflect that onto her."

The men sat in silence for some minutes. Watson pondered just how it was possible for his friend to hear him, but decided it didn't matter. He could protect Holmes now so he wouldn't do anything stupid. The first job was keeping him away from that despicable seven percent solution lying on his desk.

"I want to see you," Holmes said suddenly. "I don't much like talking to someone I can't see."

"I don't know how."

"You don't know how but it's possible?" he asked hopefully. Though there was a twinge of sadness in his voice, Watson could see no sign of emotion on his face, as per usual.

"I don't know."

Holmes sunk lower in his chair. "I suppose I expected as much.'

There was a gentle knock on the door.

"Come in, Mrs. Hudson."

The little, old woman entered his room carrying a new tray of teas and sandwiches. She set them down and made her way over to Holmes' chair, sitting herself on the arm and taking his hand.

Holmes looked over eagerly at Watson's chair.

"Listen to her, old man. You've brought this upon yourself and I suggest you take what advice she's going to give."

"I've got a few things to say, Mr. Holmes."

Holmes tried to remove his hand, but she grasped it in both of hers, silently pleading with him to listen.

"First off, who were you yelling at?"

"No one. Myself. Nothing to worry about."

The gentle woman was clearly not satisfied with his answer but she let that one go.

"Now, I know you don't take kindly to my worrying but I can't help it, Mr. Holmes. You need food in your system...or at least a drink of tea."

"She's right, Holmes. If you don't eat, I shall stop talking to you."

"I'll eat Mrs. Hudson. Thank you for your concern."

"That's better." Watson and the landlady said in unison. Watson laughed quietly.

"Now is that all?"

"I suppose. You look better, sir. Calmer, in the least. Now, the funeral is tomorrow. Are you fit to go? I mean-emotionally?"

"Of course I'm going. I can't miss the funeral of a brother."

"If only he were here to hear you say that, sir."

Holmes smiled at the woman then over at the chair. It was only a small smile-baarely touching his lips-but it was a smile, nonetheless.

_Good Enough._

Okay, folks, that's enough for now. The next chapter promises to be very exciting. Holmes goes to the funeral and-well; I won't tell you what he does. Yet.

As usual, reviews are greatly appreciated and thank you to the people who have reviewed thus far.

I ask anyone who has a suggestion to make to send it to me in a review or in a private message.

-Myelle

P.S.-I realized that the lines on my computer that separated the two POV's aren't on fanfiction so I've come up with a solution. I promise that next chapters will be easier to read. ;)


	4. Chapter 4

Wow, okay...I've made a few mistakes. In the last chapter, I wrote "I don't much talking to someone I can't see." LOL! There was supposed to be a "like" in there. Thank you to "nans" who found it. Another small mistake found was when I said the "nest chapter"...obviously, that is NEXT chapter. I deleted that chapter and added the new one which has the corrections.

To "nans" and "HADES" –you should both make profiles so I can talk to you in a message rather than in my story! HAHA!

**WARNING:** this chapter will show Holmes vulnerable...just a bit. He's going to be a little different from your average Holmes (mind you, he is dealing with his best friend's death which we never see in the stories by Conan Doyle-so bear with me...this is what I think Holmes would do...) I also looked up Victorian funerals...didn't find much so I suppose it's not much different from nowadays.

The funeral snuck up on Holmes. Watson stayed with him through the night, talking quietly by the fire. Though Holmes could not see him, he was glad to have company. He was dressed quickly in his nicest-cleanest- clothes. Over top, he donned his black arm band-a sign of mourning.

Mrs. Hudson left earlier than the two men, with them trailing about ten minutes behind her. Upon reaching the church, Holmes felt panic make its presence known within him. He didn't want to go.

Staring at door, he whispered " Watson, I'm glad you're here-even if you are a figment of my imagination-because I really couldn't do this by myself."

Watson ignored him repeating that he wasn't real and told Holmes he'd be right beside him if he needed him to be.

"Thank you."

Holmes took his seat in the very back pew of the church.

"Holmes, for christ's sake, it's my funeral. Can you please ignore you hatred of society and sit a little closer."

"I'm sorry, Watson, but I simply can't." He protested. "If the real Watson asked me to, of course, but you can't possibly be him so I will-"

"Just do it."

Holmes raised himself to his feet and walked to the very front pew. "Happy?"

"Very."

"Good, now if you ever happen to meet the real Watson, which I sincerely doubt, then you must tell him that I would like a word with him."

"A word with- ugh, Holmes, look, it really is me. I am Watson. I'm _your _Watson...not some imaginary version. If, however, you'd like me to leave it can easily be arranged."

"No! I never said that-"

"Then believe it is me."

Holmes stopped talking once he noticed a few people looking at him from the further pews. The funeral was due to start soon, but a few members of Scotland Yard came to the front of the church to greet him and give their condolences.

The funeral started and the priest said a few kind words and prayers. Holmes looked around him and saw that there were many more people than he expected. Most of them, he gathered, were probably readers of his.

"Now," said the priest, "John, as we know, had many friends but Mr. Sherlock Holmes was the closest. I now ask him to come up to say a few words about our departed."

"Holmes, did you know this was going to happen?" Watson asked.

Holmes nodded and took his place at the front of the church.

"Ladies and gentlemen, I reckon that most of you know me as the subject of my dear friend's stories. My name is Sherlock Holmes. I've worked with John in many cases spanning over seventeen years of the twenty three I've been acting as consulting detective. I never imagined that losing him would be this hard. Our friendship was outlined in his writings but never fully explained. I loved Wat-John, as I would love a brother. He was that and more to me in the years we shared at Baker Street-so you can imagine my pain and guilt when I found that he was killed on behalf of a previous criminal we encountered. Watson was loved by many people and I'm sorry for the pain caused to each of you. He will not soon be forgotten."

Holmes, upon sensing tears, quickly made his way back to his seat where Watson sat beside him.

"Thank you, Holmes, but it wasn't your fault. You do know that, right?"

"No."

"Wait, don't talk. People can't hear me, but they can hear you."

When the ceremony was concluded, the attendees of the funeral were escorted outside to the cemetery for the burial after each made their way to the casket and said a last goodbye-a tradition.

Holmes remained seated the entire time.

"Sir, we'll be gathering outside now." Said the priest.

"Father, if it's no inconvenience, I would like a few minutes for a final goodbye. I never saw him, you see, after it happened."

"Holmes, what are you planning?"Asked Watson, desperately.

"Of course, sir. I'll be back in five minutes."

"Thank you, Father."

Holmes made his way slowly up to the closed casket. He held his tears, for Watson was nearby and he couldn't afford to let Watson see him cry. He didn't want to appear vulnerable.

"Oh no, Holmes. I know what you're doing. Do _not _open that casket. Believe me, you don't want to see. Let your last memory of me be peaceful, Holmes...anything but this."

"This is necessary, Watson."

"Holmes-"

"I only want to see you. I can hear you and I know you're here-real or not- but I want to see you. One peek."

Watson reached out and put a hand on Holmes' shoulder to stop him but the man didn't feel a thing. Before he could try anything else, Holmes had pried the casket open. He opened the lid slowly, nervously preparing himself for what lie inside. He almost didn't want to see. But he had to. He had to see what he had done to his friend, no matter what the consequence.

Holding his breath, he closed his eyes as the lid was opened fully. He gained his composure and, ignoring Watson's shouts and protests; he opened his eyes and immediately wished he had not.

In the casket, his friend was lying with eyes closed-what was left of his eyes anyways. They had been cut. His face had been cut almost beyond recognition. What Holmes could see of Watson's body was badly cut. The rest, mercifully, was covered by clothing.

As he took in the sight, Watson fell silent.

"Oh God. Watson, I'm so sorry. Forgive me, Watson, I-" Holmes stammered. His words were barely audible and what Watson could hear were only pleas for forgiveness and apologies.

"It's not your fault. I don't even remember much. I didn't even feel anything. They came at me so fast that I didn't even know what happened."

Suddenly, as if they were only waiting for the right moment, tears dripped from his eyes and down his cheeks. The man sobbed, leaving Watson utterly helpless and at a loss of what to do.

"Holmes, calm down."

Holmes was aware that at some point, he would have to cry. He only wished he were home-at Baker Street-in private. He was so vulnerable here and out in the open. He felt himself slide to the ground in defeat. On all fours, he tried to catch his breath. Watson's calming voice was distant now as he slipped away into blackness.

Though he knew Watson was close, he had never felt more alone. _Pull yourself together. You're a detective. You don't show emotion. Be neutral. _Holmes tried to reason with himself, to no avail. He hadn't expected much.

A strong, firm hand on his shoulder caused him to jump back up to his feet.

"Watson?" he asked.

When he turned, it nearly tore his heart to find that the hand had been Lestrade's and not Watson's. _Be reasonable, man. It's impossible for you to feel Watson's hand anyways._

"No, it's-uh, it's just me."

"Oh, Lestrade, what brings you here?"

"I suspected, after the priest told me you requested a minute alone, that you'd open the casket. I was right I suppose."

"A first."

"You never lose yourself, Holmes. Not even now. How is it you can still joke when you've just seen this?"

"Easy. The joke was at your expense."

"Mhmm-I see. Well, in any case, it's about time we get ourselves outside-"

"He's right, Holmes. Go outside now. Leave this alone."Watson said.

"Get away from me. I don't need you here."

Both men retreated.

The priest came back into the church a few moments later, seeing Holmes with his head resting on the now closed casket. A few men came to carry Watson outside and Holmes followed at a distance.

"Watson?" he whispered.

After there was no answer, he quietly reasoned that Watson had left with Lestrade.

The body was laid in the grave and dirt was piled on top after the mourners had left, save for Holmes.

"Watson? I only meant for Lestrade to leave, not you. Please come back. I know you're here. Say something."

"Goodbye, Holmes."

So, tell me how you liked it. I hope I did alright with the mourning. I'm really nervous about what people will think about this chapter so a review or private message is most welcome. I tried my best to keep Holmes in character, but it was very hard when I was faced with a strange situation, such as this one.

PLEASE REVIEW! If you have any thoughts at all on this story, kindly tell me. It only takes a couple seconds...

-Myelle W.


	5. Chapter 5

Thanks you to the suggestions and reviews so far.

As always, if you have suggestions, let me know and I'm sorry for any grammar or spelling mistakes in my previous chapters. I'll keep on better lookout for them.

-Myelle

Watson knew he was only causing Holmes pain. For God's sake, the man thought he wasn't even real. It hurt him to hear that said...as if he doesn't belong with his friend anymore.

Alone, and very aware of the fact, the doctor walked the streets of London. He was so confused with this. All of this. Death was supposed to be easy-or so it was said to be. Peaceful...full of grace...easy...painless. None of these things applied. Watson was lonely, stressed out, and emotionally wallowing in pain.

All of this wasn't fair. It wasn't right. Nothing had ever been more wrong. He was dead. That was final. That was incurable and irreversible. He'd have to accept that. Yes, that was clear. Crystal.

Unfortunately, Watson was still confused as to why he was here. Not here as in his current state-a spirit or ghost or whatever he wanted to call himself-dead. Here as in with Holmes instead of heaven-or hell, who was he to judge himself?

Either way, he wanted to be anywhere but here. Watson knew Holmes was grieving and his presence made the process only longer and more gruelling. Watson knew what it was like to lose someone and he knew that it took a long time to get over a death-of anyone, never mind your best (and possibly only) friend.

Maybe God had it out for Holmes, not Watson. It was Holmes who was really suffering-all this business of the dead best friend. If there was a God, he would definitely want a word with Holmes after his death.

The sad part of the whole tragic little story was Watson's choice to speak-his own fault. He concluded in his thoughts that had he never spoken to his dear, troubled friend, then Holmes wouldn't be in this trouble and would've been over this by now-well, close to it anyways.

It was his stupid intuition that told him to speak-to tell him that their memories would last a lifetime-even if Watson had expired before _his _lifetime. Had he held his words back, he might have moved on to another life at this point.

Therefore, for the simple reason of believing himself to be a problem, Watson fully intended on leaving his friend. It would be hard but one day they'd see each other again. Hopefully soon-but not too soon. Holmes still had a lot of cases to solve before his time was up. For the time being, however, Holmes couldn't see him and would never know the difference if Watson were to watch silently.

At the moment, he paced beside Holmes in the graveyard, watching him grieve-alone. His last words, suitably, were "good-bye."

"Watson? What do you mean goodbye? You can't leave!"

Holmes was heartbroken. His best friend left him-then came back-then left him again. It wasn't fair. He called out to Watson again and again, with no reply. He had never felt such pain before. Watson must have been real if he just disappeared like this. _If Watson were a figment of my imagination, he would still be here-where my brain could make his every move and create every sentence he speaks. I've run him off. _

Holmes felt that he had hurt Watson by repeatedly telling him he wasn't real. Of course he was real. He had never believed in the afterlife or in spirits. It was all too strange and what he didn't understand-in his mind-was wrong. Until Watson.

Always "until Watson." Holmes never had a friend-until Watson. Holmes never told anyone of his brother-until Watson. Holmes never grieved-until Watson. He didn't like it one bit.

His heart was in two, now. One piece had left with Watson, though he'd never admit it. He was too proud for that. The softer emotions were never his forte.

Now in Baker Street, Holmes felt like crying. There was no one here-but he couldn't risk Watson seeing him cry. Not again. It was too embarrassing-degrading. It weakened him and Watson always saw him as strong-emotionless. Not a child who cried when he didn't get his way.

He wanted Watson back more than anything he had ever wanted previously. It was strange and alien to him to feel this way but he hid it well-he thought.

"Watson, if you're still here-" he paused. He was fully prepared to beg his friend (who may or may not be in the room) to come back.

Holmes stopped his sentence before he could say anything further. Maybe Watson just needed some time. Even if he wouldn't dare beg-there was no harm in apologizing.

"Watson, if you're still here I'd like to say I'm sorry. I'm sorry you died, sorry I didn't stop it, sorry it wasn't me...sorry for everything."

It took everything Watson had in him to stay silent. This may be harder than he expected.

He continued his silent observations as Lestrade came bursting through the door.

"Holmes-you're being arrested for the murder of John Watson."

Indeed...staying silent would be a challenge.


	6. Chapter 6

How was the last chapter? REVIEWS! Reviews are to me as cocaine is to Holmes ;)

Please let me have your thoughts! As always, if you have any suggestions or things you want to see in my story-let me know and I'll do my best to weave it into my plot. I don't have time to look over this chapter so forgive me for any mistakes or the poor quality of writing.

-Myelle

**P.S.-I've started a blog! **If anyone would like to hear my inner thoughts-mostly about writing and stuff like that-then go to: **http: /th3woman. wordpress. com/ **(My choice to call myself "th3 woman" was after Sherlock's reference to Irene Adler-his equal in terms of observation...I really admire her, though she was only in one story...and three is a magic number, but not my favourite one.)

"You're wasting your time, Lestrade." Holmes said sadly.

The initial shock nearly paralyzed him. Lestrade knew just how devoted Holmes was to Watson so why was he here bothering him? This is a very cruel joke. Yes, a joke. What else could it be? Clearly this was all a sham of sorts. There was absolutely no way that Lestrade could believe Holmes had done this. Then again, Lestrade sometimes proved to be of very little intelligence. At this thought, Sherlock became nervous.

"There is no way it couldn't have been you, Holmes. We've gone over the facts..."

"Once? Twice? Go over them again. You clearly haven't seen one obvious bit of information."

"What would that be?"

"That Watson was my best friend and that I was here when the crime was committed, assuming you came and told me right away."

"Well, sir, I don't see how anyone else could've helped the man escape from jail. Even if you didn't physically kill Watson yourself, you were an accomplice to murder.-an arrest-able charge. You'll be hanged if we don't find you innocent."

"Well you'd better start working."

"Nevertheless, I'm afraid you'll have to escort me to the Yard."

Holmes gave up. He stood, allowing the two constables who came with Lestrade to handcuff him and escort him out to a waiting hansom cab.

It scared Holmes to know that there was no one out there of his intelligence to help him. Mycroft, perhaps but he doubted his older, smarter sibling would care to help him. It was always worth a try, he supposed.

What a shame that Scotland Yard didn't have a constable of equal intelligence to the Holmes brothers. A man of that brain capacity would be a great benefit to both the Yard and Holmes. No more trifling cases from the police to impose on his more interesting adventures.

"How do you suppose I helped the man out of prison?" Holmes asked, eager for the answer.

"Well we know you did it. Who else could come up with something so brilliant? You're a smart man, Holmes. If only you'd have let your brilliance stay on the lighter side of crime."

"Get on with it Lestrade."

"The diamond coated ribbon, Holmes...who else could have known that? The ribbon coated with diamond-"

"-Would cut right through a window bar. Genius! It would act as a saw!"

The sheer genius in the idea both scared and excited Holmes. Scientifically, it was indeed possible to cut through the prison window bars with a ribbon. Diamond, after all, was the strongest rock on earth. Only diamond could cut diamond. It was so perfect.

The only he wanted to do now was solve the case. It plagued his mind, feasting on his ideas. There were so many people he had to question-so many places he had to go. Unfortunately, the only place he would end up in now was his own prison cell.

And only God knew how long he would be here for with Lestrade on the case.

Watson was horrified. If he spoke now, Holmes would go into mad fits about him leaving-he couldn't have that. The poor man was beat up enough already. But he couldn't let him rot in a jail until he was-

He didn't dare think it, but apparently his mind had other plans. Visions of Holmes swinging from a rope...his lifeless body... It was impossible to think about, but it haunted Watson's innermost thoughts. The mental pictures snuck up on him, never leaving.

Ever since Lestrade had said "You'll be hanged for this if we don't prove you innocent," Watson had been terrified. It couldn't possibly end this way. Fate simply didn't allow it. How ironic it would be to have the best crime solver in London-no, the world-hanged for a crime he never committed.

He could imagine all too clearly. Holmes' last words then the executioner would pull the lever. Holmes would drop and Watson would watch as he struggled for breath whilst his life slowly seeped out of him.

No word could express how wrong this would be if it indeed came to an end. Yet, Holmes looked completely okay with everything. Watson wondered if it was an act or if the man really, truly didn't care if he lived or died.

"Holmes," he heard Lestrade say, "I'm really sorry about all this, but it's impossible for you to _not _have committed the crime. We've found your cigarette case beside the murder scene. Witnesses said there were two men who killed Watson. One, they say, escaped before the police arrived. The other was caught."

"You flatter me with your opinion that no one less brilliant than I could have carried out such a crime however, you offend me when you believe I would be stupid enough to drop my own cigarette case at the scene of a crime. My case was stolen two weeks ago. I never reported it. I bought a new one. Watson could-" He stopped himself.

"Watson could _vouch_ for you? I think, sir, that that is highly unlikely."

"I know you think I am responsible, but you must understand that I would _never _hurt Watson. Not for money, not for fame, not for the world. You _know _that!" Holmes' voice rose as he spoke. He was furious, that much Watson could tell.

It was very uncharacteristic of Holmes to raise his voice at anyone, especially Lestrade, but under the circumstances, Watson figured it would likely occur again. Lestrade was clearly not in his right state of mind.

Holmes spoke again once he had taken a moment to calm himself.

"You don't even have a motive. I admit that, yes, Watson's death was my fault. I should have been more careful with the status of previous criminals. It was very plausible that one could escape but I ignored that. However, I was _not _involved in the plot to kill him."

"The motive is clear as day. Watson changed his will a month before his death. You obviously couldn't wait longer so your impatience got the best of you this time, Mr. Holmes. Everything was left to you."

"Impossible."

Watson was shocked. His will was the reason Holmes was being taken to prison. It was all him. He wanted so badly to say something, but Lestrade wouldn't hear anyways, and Holmes would only be more upset. It was true that Watson had changed everything. After the incident at Riechenbach, Holmes was completely removed from his last will and everything was to be left to Mary.

Then Mary died. Bless her soul. She was the most beautiful woman he had ever laid eyes on and only a short year after his friend was taken from him, she too was gone. Poor Mary. Her illness had been slow and painful for her to endure, but he had stayed by her the same way she would have stayed by him. She was so kind. So compassionate. Yet, she was gone. He wondered if he would see her, now that he was dead too. However, at the moment, the matter at hand was proving Holmes innocent.

After Mary died, Holmes returned and Watson waited a long time before changing anything for fear that when he did, Holmes would leave him again. It was a stupid, irrational fear but Watson had let it overcome him until he finally decided to change it.

_Fortunately_, nothing happened to Holmes and Watson was glad to have security in knowing his friend would be okay after he was gone.

_Unfortunately, _Watson's procrastination had imprisoned Holmes- the opposite of what his will was meant for. Life had a funny way of balancing things out. Watson was the one to go _but _Holmes was wrongly jailed for the murder. Fate was a curious thing.

Well, fate was stupid-idiotic. What kind of destiny was it for a man to be wrongly accused of murder? And to be _hanged. _Watson desperately hoped it wouldn't come to that however; the odds were not in their favour.

Holmes would hang.

I don't have time to look over this chapter so forgive me for the mistakes or the poor quality of writing.

So, please check out my blog! Tell me what you think of this chapter and as always, please let me know if you want anything in the story. (To **ViolaHarmony, **I hope the bit about Mary was to your liking. Tell me if there is anything else you would like to see.)

I'm sorry for the rambling in this chapter-it's very late. I promise the next chapter will be better written.

PLEASE REVIEW!


	7. Chapter 7

Tell me how I'm doing...REVIEW! =D

Also, I've started a blog...you can check it out at http :/ th3woman. wordpress . com/

THANK YOU TO "TKodami"...you don't have private messaging so I can't answer you back but your review was seriously awesome! THANKS! It's readers like you that make me smile

P.S.- on my computer, there is a line that i added to separate the two POV's...apparently it still doesn't show up on fanficiton... tell me if this is working now...

The cigarette case was planted. That much was obvious. The question at hand now was...who planted it?

Holmes wondered who was sick enough to carry out a plan such as this. It was so elaborate that Holmes himself couldn't fully wrap his mind around it. It was obviously two or more men-based on the "witness" accounts. Someone was angry enough to frame Holmes and they clearly wouldn't stop until he was dead...revenge perhaps? Or _prevention_? Maybe they were planning another crime and needed the pair out of the way...

If that were the case, Holmes had little hope of stopping it whilst he was locked up here.

It was too confusing.

He looked around. The jail cell was empty save for a small bed with a wooden frame. It looked very uncomfortable but he wouldn't be here long anyways, assuming they were, indeed, hanging him. There was a small window on the far wall above the bed with bars on it. Holmes examined them, concluding that it was undeniably possible to saw through them...provided someone had given you the correct tool. In this case, a diamond-dust-coated ribbon.

Lying down on the bed, he decided to let Watson have a break, if he was even still here.

"Watson, if you are here, I want you to know that you can leave now." He said sadly. It was possible that Watson was still watching him. If that was true, then he decided to save his friend the trouble of a boring show. "My life from here on out is evidently pointless. I'll swing for this and I can't say I fully disagree with their decision."

Watson listened to his friend's rambles.

"I believe that I won't be much of an entertainment from here on out...sitting in jail. Not much of a show. I only hope they hang me soon to get it over with-or perhaps..."

Holmes trailed off and had an expression on his face that Watson had seen a million times. His heart filled with joy...the detective had thought up a way out! Of course he would, it was obvious from the start. They couldn't keep _the _Sherlock Holmes locked up in a simple prison cell. He was far too brilliant.

Holmes worked at tearing a large, sharp piece of wood from the small bed in the room. As soon as he got it, however, he hesitated. Watson observed anxiously to see what the plan was.

Then, seemingly gaining courage, Holmes lifted the wood in the air and faced the sharp point towards his chest.

Watson's stomach dropped. Horror found its way into him for what must have been the hundredth time that day. He inhaled deeply, knowing that he couldn't possibly let Holmes do this. The pure terror of the idea was worse than him hanging. Taking his own life was unacceptable. He couldn't let him. He had to be stopped...but Watson didn't want to talk.

_He won't do it..._Watson thought, ignoring his own uncertainty. Thankfully, Holmes paused. Watson thought he was going to stop.

"Watson, if I'm dying anyways, might as well make it sooner than later."

With that, he drove the plank of wood towards his heart.

Sorry for the short chapter...tell me what you think!

If you like what you read, tell people about the story... I need more readers!

Let me know if there is anything that you'd like to see...and as always, thanks for the readers and reviewers so far!


	8. Chapter 8

I've been thinking...should I redo my story called "The Singular Case of Jack the Ripper" and make it longer? Or write a sequel? Or just expand a few parts? Let me know what you think, those of you who have read It.

As always, reviews are more than welcome.

(I think I found a way to make the line breaks on my computer work now...)

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Watson stared...

Just gazed absentmindedly...

It was all too much to take in...

He tried not to cry out to Holmes but it was too late anyways...Everything passed him in slow motion. It was too much to take in. Holmes brought down the wooden plank and-

Watson looked away. When he looked back, the detective was lying on the ground.

Horrified, Watson felt his heart clench tight in his chest. He panicked. There was no self-control left in his system and he shouted a half human cry of pure terror. The sight would surely haunt him for the rest of eternity-which was apparently mandatory to go through.

"Why, Holmes?" he screamed.

Watson couldn't tell if he had yelled in horror, anger, sadness, or annoyance. Perhaps all of them. His friend shouldn't have gone this way. He deserved better. It was too uncharacteristic for Holmes to inflict his own pain. Yes, the detective was a little masochistic at times but that shouldn't amount to _suicide._

"Watson?" Holmes said weakly.

Watson bent over the man. It took him a moment, but he finally realized that the plank was beside Holmes. He had brought it down, but must have stopped before it went in.

"Oh, thank the Lord!" Watson cried. He felt like he was flying when the relief swept itself over him. He fell to his knees and knelt beside Holmes who had turned himself over to lay flat on his back on the cold floor of the cell.

"You're here."

Watson stopped dead in his track. _Damn. _He had given up his position. Holmes knew he was here. If he had held on for only one more minute, he could have his friend safe and his secret likewise. He silently cursed himself for worrying so much. He laughed inwardly-if he had been more like Holmes who could keep his calm, they wouldn't be in this mess. Now, he knew there was little chance of Holmes ever getting over this whole affair...provided he got out of jail.

"Holmes-" he said disapprovingly, "what are you thinking? Honestly-suicide? Are you really that disturbed? It's not like you to- to- I don't know..._feel _anything. Why now?"

"I'm human, Watson, despite what you may be inclined to think. I feel emotions...I only prefer to keep that fact to myself."

"Suicide though? I can't deal with this, Holmes. I can't watch you-protect you- when you program yourself to a path of self-destruction."

"Watson, I'm sorry. If you'd prefer me to wait for my death in this rotted jail cell, starving, cold, wet, and lonely, then so be it. I, however, have other plans."

"You mean...you're going to try again?"

"I'm afraid that I couldn't sum up the courage before but now that I have-"he cleared his throat awkwardly. "Besides, there's not much you can do to stop me, my dear fellow. You're a _ghost._"

Watson let anger get the best of him when he saw Holmes reach for the wood plank. Leaping out, breathless, he stole the plank away. Holding it in his hand, he noticed he didn't pass through it. He was _holding it._

"Watson I-"

Watson stared in amazement at his hand which dropped the plank on instinct as if it were a burning hot coal.

"Watson, I see you." Holmes said. It pained Watson to hear that his voice was not triumphed or filled with joy...or even sadness. Sherlock Holmes was terrified.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Please tell me what you think. Next chapter should be up soon. Thanks to everyone who has read and reviewed thus far. You make me smile =D the end is in sight, my friends. I've almost written the conclusion to my story-but don't worry-that's not coming up for a long while yet.

P.S.-if you'd like to see anything in the story, let me know and I'll try to make it happen.


	9. Chapter 9

Sorry for taking a long time to update...I promise I'll be quicker next time, but school starts soon so updates may be a little slow for a while...just about a week or so.

For those of you who can't remember, we last left Holmes and Watson when Watson took the wooden plank from Holmes and Holmes saw him...but is terrified.

(LOTS OF DIALOGUE IN THIS CHAPTER)

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Holmes?" Watson asked.

"Am I dead? Did I actually kill myself?"

"No, of course not! I wouldn't allow it. You're fine."

"Then why-"

"I don't know."

Watson watched the expression on his friends face. That look of horror scared him. There must be something wrong with him. He looked down at himself in case he looked as he had died-bloodied up and broken. He was fine. So what was wrong? Shouldn't Holmes be happy? If not happy, then shouldn't he at least be unemotional, as always? Being scared just didn't suit him.

"Holmes, I don't understand how this happened."

"Who cares, Watson? It is unimportant. Not every mystery needs to be solved."

"Why are you scared?"

"I'm afraid I'm losing my mind. I'll end up in a hospital for incurables if I ever get out of here."

Watson laughed. He looked at the wooden plank on the floor where he had thrown it. Walking over to it, he kicked it away into the corner where it was unreachable from Holmes.

It felt good to talk again, but there were still the guilty thoughts in his head telling him that it shouldn't be this way. He really mustn't talk but he felt he needed to. Maybe the reason he was here was to help Holmes get over his death by never really leaving him at all. No, that couldn't be it. Things like that didn't happen in real life. _Ghosts _didn't happen in real life.

Perhaps this wasn't real life...maybe it was all a dream. Watson pinched himself-as you were apparently supposed to when you thought you were dreaming. He didn't wake up so this must be real. _That's unfortunate...I rather liked the idea of being alive._

Perhaps he was sitting in a mental asylum somewhere-his mind completely detached and wondering around London as a ghost.

No, that was impossible...or not.

"I can't believe you're still here-"

"I've here the whole time, you idiot. Where did you think I could possibly go?"

"Idiot? I'm hardly an idiot, Watson."

"Well you certainly act like it." he said, suddenly realizing his anger. "I can't believe you almost...killed yourself? It's not like you, Holmes. If you try that again I swear I'll-"

"What? Leave? I'd only try it again."

"I'd chain you up. So help me God, I'll chain you up so you have nothing but your own thoughts."

"But if I die, then we can talk again and we can be friends again. Don't you want that?"

"No. I've never wanted anything less."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Holmes was hurt. He wouldn't show it but those words hurt more than a wooden plank would have. His only friend didn't want to see him. Was it possible to sink any lower?

"But-"

"Clearly you don't understand. If you harm yourself, Holmes, I won't talk to you...in life _or_ death. I'm already dead. I have an eternity here. You are alive and you simply can't waste it away. Now, do you have a plan to get out of here?"

"Of course I have a plan."

"Tell me what I can do."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

As Holmes told him, Watson examined the crime scene. It gave him chills and he wished it could be any other way but if he wanted to help his friend, he'd have to go back. He tried to find footsteps to follow but there were only faint traces which had since been trampled by other people.

He singled out footsteps of the murderer by the faint traces of blood on the ground. He'd need assistance, however, to fully trace them to the perpetrator. He remembered their second documented case. He had called it _The Sign of Four. _Watson thought back and tried to remember the address of the man who kept Toby-the dog that traced the criminals scent.

He couldn't remember the address but he remembered how to get there-so he walked. He had to walk now because no one else could see him still. How could he get a cab when no one could see or hear him? He supposed he could hop into a stopped one but he would have no way of telling the cabbie where to go-therefore, he walked.

As he walked-he thought. As usual, his thoughts ended up straying to Holmes. Where did the strong, unemotional detective go? He had been replaced with a dependant, dramatic, suicidal lunatic.

Though he was glad to have Holmes show he actually cared, Watson wished he would be strong again. It was one of the things he admired about him-his mental strength. All that was still there but instead of Holmes hiding his heart, he hid his brain.

Watson was glad to finally reach the man's house a few hours later. It was a long walk, but since he was dead, he supposed he wasn't really tired. He only wished he could have saved that time.

Taking the dog was easier than expected. He called to the dog and Toby apparently heard him. There was no way of restraining the dog with a leash, since people would only see the leash and not the leash holder. Therefore, Watson would have to rely on the fact that the dog appeared to be obedient. With little trouble, he got the dog out of the yard and they were on their way to the scene of the crime.

Watson didn't know what to expect as Toby followed the criminal's scent, but anything his mind imagined was nothing compared to what to soon found.

VVVVVVVVVVVV

To my readers, thank you for reading my story thus far. More to come...

Please read my redo of my previous story "the singular case of jack the ripper"

-Myelle

P.S.-I did not look over this chapter- I am short on time as of right now.

Kindly ignore the mistakes-I'm sure there were many.


	10. Chapter 10

To "HADES" –I'd like to know who you are...thanks for your suggestions and comments. You're seriously helping me a LOT! Might I suggest to you to make a profile? ;)

**To LORRAINE : **_**Merci pour la revue! J'espère que mon français est bon... Je peux parler seulement un peu de la langue... C'est assez bien que. Me dire si vous avez n'importe quelles suggestions pour l'histoire. N'importe quoi vous voulez, j'essaierai d'ajouter. Merci encore pour la revue ! Il a fait mon jour !**_

To my other readers and reviewers...thank you for reading thus far. I'm sorry for all the cliff-hangers...but it keeps you guessing and I like to hear your guesses...

-Myelle

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Watson followed the dog, wondering when the scent would end. He grew impatient at times but continued to follow faithfully until Toby finally stopped. They had come to a small house in the country. Watson thanked whatever higher power there was for the amazing luck they had gotten in finding it.

Toby barked as if he was looking for approval.

"Shh, boy be quiet. We'll be heard."

Sure enough, there was a stir from inside the little house. An ill-kempt man appeared with a rifle in his hands. Watson wasn't alarmed. The only one who could be seen was the dog and he knew that Toby was too fast for the man to get him.

There was no way to restrain the dog as he bolted to safety in the trees. Watson made note of which way he had gone and would find him later. He walked past the man who was firing shots in every direction.

The inside of the house was much nicer than the outside. It was only one floor but had decent sized rooms. They were well lit and tidied up nicely.

Deciding to begin in the drawing room, Watson searched for any clue he could find that would prove Holmes' innocence. He wasn't exactly sure what he was looking for.

He stepped out of the man's way every time he came near-though nothing would happen if he passed through him. After a long search, Watson realized that maybe Toby had led him to the wrong house. That would be horrifying as it would mean they would probably never find the real murderer and Holmes would hang.

It was a long shot by following the nearly week old trail of scent and foot prints to the man's house. Tobay, however, had no trouble. This must be right...but if it isn't...well, Watson had no clue what he would do.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"Watson?" Holmes called quietly. He supposed it was possible for Watson to have come back but remained silent again-assuming he was invisible again. "If you're here, please answer me. Did you find anything? Why are you quiet?"

The silence told him that his friend had most likely not yet returned. Sighing, he sat down on the bed.

He had never felt more alone. He had never really felt alone at all-but he could feel the fact weighing upon him like a ton of bricks. It surprised him. _When did I start feeling?_

A bang on the bars of the cell startled him.

"Hello?"

"Holmes, it's me. I'm transferring you."

"What? Why? I see no need."

"This is only a holding cell. I can't keep you here."

How would Watson find him if he was moved? They'd never speak again! If Watson couldn't find him, he would hang and he had already been told that allowing himself to be hanged was suicide...

Watson would never talk to him.

"I can't let you do that, Lestrade. You see, I've grown to love this place like a second Baker Street and I can't possibly see myself leaving. You don't know what, my dear man, is at stake. I'll stay if you don't mind too much. Besides, you wouldn't disobey a man's last request would you? Mine is to either not be hanged or to stay in this cell."

"Confound it, Holmes. I won't take this from you anymore. You'll hang and you'll move from this cell if it takes a hundred men to make you do so!"

"Better begin rounding up your men."

Lestrade left angrily. For now, Holmes had won.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Watson jumped at the knock on the door. The strange man answered and greeted three others, inviting them to sit in the drawing room.

Nearly two hours had passed since Watson arrived at the house. He could only imagine where Toby had gotten to after all this time, but he wouldn't leave until he found something that told him whether or not this was the right building.

The men sat down and drank a glass of brandy that was poured for them.

"Let's get down to business, boys." Said the owner of the house, who Watson would soon know as Jack.

"Sure thing, Jack. But what business are you talking about?"

"Sherlock Holmes."

Watson was struck with interest and eagerness to hear what they would say next. Something told him that Toby had been right after all.

Jack spoke again. "The man has been getting in our way and it's about time we stopped him."

"But we already got him into jail. He's going to hang. That's the plan."

Another man spoke up. Watson guessed he was Jack's right-hand-man by the sound of it. "He's clever. Too clever. If he hasn't escaped from that prison yet, he will. If we got Hamish out, no doubt he'll get himself out, too. You gotta remember that he killed Moriarty."

All the men nodded in agreement.

"So far," Jack began, "You've killed the doctor and got Holmes arrested. Exceptional job on that, by the way. We're not near done yet, though. We need a plan to set into motion if the man does, indeed, escape. If he's not too upset about his little friend, then the first thing on his mind will be escaping and if we're not prepared, we'll be caught. He'll not stop till he sees us hang."

"We're too careful for that to happen."

"You can never be too careful when dealing with him. He hangs in a month, I'm told. I've paid off a few police men using some of the profit from our last job. If anything unusual happens, they'll notify us immediately. I've also got men stationed outside of the prison he's currently in. They're watching."

"What do they do if they see him escape? They can't just grab him. That would cause unwanted attention, I think."

"Absolutely. They are in eight pairs of two. I didn't have to pay 'em much. They're street beggars, but they're not unfaithful. I've threatened them with torture if they don't comply. "

"What are the pairs for then?"

"That's what I was getting at. If Mr. Holmes escapes, one will take note of his location and direction and come report to me while the other follows. The one following has been shown signals to indicate to any other paid-of member he comes across that Mr. Holmes has escaped."

"Why are you doin' this, Jack? He's already lost his best friend. Why do you need him dead too? Even if he doesn't hang, he's not likely to trace anything back to you. The police already got one of us for the murder. Holmes'll think it was him. I think you're goin' too far with this."

"I want him dead. Until I see his dead body, I will never be satisfied. I want him tortured. I want to cause him the greatest pain imaginable."

"And what's that?"

"I took away his brother. Of course, John Watson wasn't a real brother, but you've seen 'em together. People would have thought them sodomites had Watson not been married. Holmes took my brother from me six years ago and I'll never forgive him. I watched my own brother hang by the neck. My own sibling died in front of me by the hands of Sherlock Holmes-and he'll pay."

The other men were quiet. Now that they knew it was a personal battle between Jack and Sherlock, they seemed keener to finish what they started.

Watson was furious, but there wasn't much he could do. The men began forming their plan after another quick glass of brandy. Each had the mind of a genius and he feared for his friend, but Sherlock was smart. He was known for his brain and these men were very aware of that.

Watson wondered if Holmes could possibly dodge them by doing everything he wasn't expected to do. They seemed to expect that he was too smart to go to Baker Street and too smart to walk around without a disguise.

Perhaps if the genius played dumb, he could outsmart the masterminds...it sounded ridiculous, but as Watson listened to their plan, he devised one of his own.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Lestrade had come back. He had brought three men with him. Those men had picked up Holmes and dragged him to a waiting hansom. The hansom had taken him to another prison entirely and he had been locked in a cell.

Holmes ran over the recently past events like they were a dream. It seemed so impossible. Now, he feared he would never see Watson again. Watson wouldn't know if he had escaped or if he had been transferred or even kidnapped, which wasn't too unlikely to happen.

_Might as well make use of the time._ He thought. With that, he emptied his mind, completely giving up and falling asleep for the first time in days.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

So, how was my new chapter? Let em know...personally, I think it was kind of poorly written but I've already got a World Issues article due soon and I accidentally signed up for the advanced math class-a mistake which isn't fixable...the other classes are full

Anyways, check out my blog at .com/

Thanks for reading...reviews are my drugs!

P.S.-no time to edit...sorry.


	11. Chapter 11

Dear readers: Thank you for the wonderful reviews...I'm almost at 50. My goal is 100 reviews for this story...wanna help me? Haha.

Anyways, I'm sincerely sorry for the long wait. I hope this chapter will once again make up it.

-Myelle

P.S.-lots of dialogue again...

VVVVVVVVVVVVV

When the men had finished talking, Watson watched them leave then followed them out. To his surprise none of them spoke again until they parted at the main road. Even then, all they said was a goodbye.

_They're being very secretive. _

"Toby!" He called. He couldn't forget the dog.

Toby scurried out from behind the trees towards Watson. Apparently, he hadn't run off. Then again, why would Holmes ever trust a dog that did. It only made sense that Toby should be waiting until he returned.

Watson laughed at the silly, wriggling being running around his feet.

"Come on, boy. Let's get you home. You'll be missed."

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Only four concrete walls and a bed made up his cell. Oh, yeah...and a window. Like the window could possibly be of any compensation. It faced a brick building. After all Holmes did for Lestrade over the years, the least he could do is giving him a decent cell with a good view. This was where he would live...well, until he was hanged- which was now inevitable.

A part of him knew that Watson would find him. He couldn't just give up. It wouldn't take a month to find him. He was stupid to think that his friend wouldn't come back. He should have more faith in him.

Holmes was tired. He had woken up only hours ago but his coming death seemed to wear him out already. Funny, he would spend his time napping while awaiting eternal sleep.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

"No." Watson stammered as he saw the empty cell. At first thought, he had assumed they had moved up the date of the hanging but the police gave notice of at least a week.

So now he was stuck on his own to make a plan. There were three major prisons in the greater London area. Therefore, Holmes must be in either this one or the other two but most likely, he would be within Scotland Yard's cells. This was only the station. The majority of the prison cells were about a half hour walk away. He would probably be in the basement where the most dangerous criminals were held. Holmes would be deemed a dangerous criminal because of the murder and because of his brilliance.

Watson smiled to himself. _Just as Holmes would have done it. _He was please with his own deductions. He started his walk, checking all the other holding cells first, just in case he had been wrong.

...

Watson was growing tired of walking in and out of cells, searching for Holmes. There were only about ten left on the basement floor. He was losing hope with every new cell.

He walked into the second last cell from the end. His heart was beating faster. He closed his eyes, almost afraid to look. How terrible would it be if every deduction he had made was wrong? How would he find Holmes then? He would have to look in every prison cell in London.

What if Holmes had been transferred out of the city?

He opened his eyes. His stomach dropped. This wasn't Holmes.

There was one last shot. After this, he has no inkling of where his friend could possibly be. Preparing himself for the worst, Watson took in a deep breath and walked fearfully into the cell.

"For god's sake." He said out of relief more than annoyance. _Of course he's in the last one... _Watson thought sarcastically.

Holmes lay sleeping on the small bed in the room. Just to make sure, Watson felt for a pulse. You never know with him.

"I'm sorry." Said Holmes.

Maybe he wasn't sleeping after all.

"For what?"

"Let me leave, please. I want to leave."

Sleep talking, he concluded as he sat on the side of the bed. Should he wake him? Watson recalled only one other time when he had heard Holmes sleep talking. It was after the case of the "Three Garridebs" when he had been shot. Holmes had rushed to his side and- well, it turned out to only be a minor wound. But after that day, Holmes had talked in his sleep for weeks, apologizing fro something he couldn't have prevented.

"Holmes, forget your dream. Only sleep. Don't dream."

"I'm so sorry. I can't watch it. Just let me leave here."

"Holmes...?"

"I killed him and I'm sorry! Let me leave! " he said louder this time... Holmes was turning on the bed. It disturbed Watson.

"That's enough! Wake up Holmes!"

Watson shook the man until his eyes opened. To Watson's surprise and dismay, Holmes looked around the room as if he wasn't even there. _He can't see me anymore._

"I'm right in front of you, Holmes. I guess you can't see me anymore."

"You found me." He said. "I'm actually most relieved at that, old boy. I was afraid that you wouldn't come in time. Did you find anything?"

Watson told him of the men's plans of torture and that they had only killed him to get to Holmes.

"Therefore, it can't possibly have been your fault. It was them trying to get revenge which you couldn't have prevented."

"On the contrary, they killed you to get to me...therefore it is fully my fault. You can't change the way I think, Watson.; It just won't happen." He said sadly. Watson almost couldn't hear him.

"What was your dream about, Holmes? Was it about the murder?"

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Looking up at Watson, Holmes felt so vulnerable. He was almost certain of the expression his friend had on his face. It was of concern and worry and Holmes hated it. Although he couldn't exactly see Watson, he could see the expression in his mind and it burned him.

If he knew one thing it was that he wouldn't say no to Watson. Not now that he was dead and he had a second chance to be kind to him.

"Yes. I saw you killed and I tried to apologize but you didn't hear me."

"I heard you here. You talked-"

"Ugh." Holmes made a sound of annoyance at himself.

"Yes, well...there's no need to apologize. I sincerely don't see how you find it's your own fault."

"I could have warned you to take your revolver, I could have met you at your house, I could have-"

"For God's sake! Stop! I'll never blame you. I'm _glad _it was me, Holmes, because you now have a chance at escaping and living a good life. If I were in your position, I would never escape."

"Nonsense, old boy. I'd help you."

"I still wouldn't be able to find decent disguises and I can't run as fast as you. They'd find me in an instant. You, Holmes, have a great chance at getting back at these criminals with your brain. I'll help you, of course, but I'm afraid I can't do much. Their devious minds took little time preparing your death but you're smarter. Have you figured out a way to escape? I know you've been thinking of one."

"Well first-"he began "- I'll need you to go back to the holding cell where I was. Somewhere in that station will be the diamond coated ribbon-"

"I see. You're going to use the same method the criminals used."

"Yes. That's all I need for now. There are a couple bars on the window that I can hopefully saw through. Since it's a basement cell, I'll only need to move the bed-for more height- then climb out."

Holmes heard Watson say goodbye then he was gone. He sighed. _I'm Bored. _

He wished he had his cocaine.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

How was that? REVIEWS! I need them to live! Well, not really...but kinda. Haha.

Thank you much to Hades Lord Of The Dead who talked to me on fanfiction whilst I wrote this chapter...it was coolio!

THANKS TO EVERYONE! ONLY A FEW MORE CHAPTERS!


	12. Chapter 12

Thanks for the reviews so far...I'm currently working on the ending of the story. I want it to blow your mind...really. And thanks very much to Hades Lord Of The Dead who is helping me. There are tons of endings that we have to sort thought and I really appreciate her help.

(and if you doubt me about how many endings there are...ask her. There are about thirty.)

-Myelle

JUST A SIDE NOTE: the funniest thing in the world is when the word 'for' is spelt like 'fro'. HAHA! It makes me laugh every time and it's so hard to find when you're editing!

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Watson was back sooner than Holmes expected. With the diamond coated ribbon in his hands, he was already half-way through the bars of the jail cell window. Watson offered help but Holmes insisted he do it himself.

He could only hear Watson now but it was enough company to keep him sane. Holmes was thankful that Watson had stayed with him though it confused him. He had always believed that once dead, that was it. You had no afterlife. It was so simple and easy. So why was Watson here? If he was anywhere, it should be heaven. Watson was a good man and deserved better than having to help his lonely friend out of jail in his afterlife.

Then Holmes realized something. His friend wouldn't be here forever with him. He didn't know what was postponing his journey to "everlasting life," or whatever it was they said in church, but it wouldn't hold off much longer. Was this purgatory? Was Watson with him before he left forever?

Regardless, Holmes was grateful that he was here or, in all probability, he wouldn't be alive to be grateful at all. Watson saved him and he was afraid of what would happen when he left again.

He continued sawing away at the bars until he heard the grinding sound stop and the bar was loose.

"Watson, where are you?"

"I'm right beside you."

"Wonderful. Did you see that? If I just move this bar out of the way-" he said, pushing the other bar with all his strength until it clattered to the ground with the other one. Now, there was a hole just big enough to get out of.

"Good job, Holmes! Now let's get out of here."

Holmes pushed the bed up to the wall and used it as leverage to get himself up easily out of the window.

He already had a plan of action. He would go to Baker Street, where the criminals didn't expect him to go-they thought he was too smart. Indeed he was. Then, after getting some money and a few portable disguises, he would go to Mycroft's house in the country. He knew what awaited him there, but he had to go.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Two hours later saw them casually walking away from Baker Street. Holmes had everything he needed and was fully in disguise. When he had walked out of the bedroom, Watson had barely recognized him. His overactive, worried, mind had at first thought that one of Jack's men had found them.

Holmes looked forward as they walked as if nothing had happened-which was absolutely necessary if they wanted to fool the brilliant criminals. At every turn, Watson could feel his anticipation and anxiety creeping up within him. The fear of what might happen controlled him until every move he made was only in Holmes' best interest. For the first time, he was very grateful to already be dead. If he wasn't dead already, he might have had a heart attack by this time. He was in "case-mode" as he liked to call it.

Holmes led them to Mycroft's country house on foot using as many back-roads as possible.

"Watson, I just want to let you know-"he paused.

Watson could feel him hesitating. Something told him that he didn't want to hear what came next.

"Yes?" he coaxed.

"I might not make it out of here alive and if that happens, I'd like you to know that I'm very grateful for your help. I only wanted to say that before I went in because if I die in there, death is probably very distracting and I might forget to tell you."

Typical Holmes, always weighing the possibilities. Watson simply nodded. Surely nothing could go wrong here. This was Mycroft's house- the safest place for anyone when they needed to be hidden. There was no way anything could happen to him. So why was he so distraught?

"Holmes? What do you mean? What are you saying?"

"Watson. I'm very glad for your company but I think I should go in alone. You see, it only makes sense that if they wish to torture me, they would do it in the country or a warehouse somewhere in London. There aren't many warehouses that they could trick me into going to therefore, they chose the country. I'm very sorry Watson, but I've been deceiving you for some time now. I know what I have to do and I'm going to do it. I will hopefully see you when I am dead unless, of course, I go to hell; which is very possible. They are very clever but I am even more so. I knew the criminals would be here and I brought myself here on my own accord."

The confession surprised Watson. He had thought he would have had the advantage with Holmes being blind to him but still, the detective had managed to deceive him. Watson wanted to beg and plead with his friend but he knew it would do no good. Once Holmes had made his mind, it was final; unchangeable by anyone else's efforts. Instead, Watson just stayed silent. There was nothing to say. He wasn't furious. He wasn't saddened. He wasn't even happy that his friend would join him. Finally, Watson knew what it was like to be Holmes. Empty. Emotionless. Cold. _Ghostly._

So Watson watched, as always.

"Goodbye, Watson. Or maybe...hello. I don't honestly know where I'll end up." The man shrugged and walked inside.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Holmes wondered if Watson was angry with him. He probably was. He had, in his short time in prison, realized that he couldn't live his life. With or without Watson, it wouldn't be the same. Nothing was simple as it used to be. Everything was too complex for even him to figure out and he didn't like it. Worst of all, he could _feel. _Holmes felt what he had never known. Love. Not romantic love but love for a friend, a brotherly love that only crept up on him once it was too late and he would not-could surely never- forgive himself for never realizing this all sooner.

Yes, Holmes would have to endure hell on earth until the torture killed him but that would be nothing to what he really deserved. Hell. He deserved, in his opinion, Hell.

And he wouldn't stop until he got what he deserved.

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Watson followed. The men in the room were waiting for Holmes-who stood speechless as he was tossed around like a piece of trash. They took him and strapped him to a chair. And Holmes let them. He _let _them. He all but helped them bind himself to the wood chair in the centre of Mycroft's home. Watson didn't dare try to imagine what they had done with Mycroft. But knowing him, he was probably out of the country anyways-on _business. _

The man he recognized as jack said something to him. Watson barely heard but was suddenly jerked alert when Jack yelled.

"Answer me! What did my brother do?"

"Attempted murder. I see it runs in the family. Can we get this over with?"

"On whom did my brother attempt murder?"

"Dr. John Watson. Like I said, it runs in the family. Apparently, you and your brother think alike. You both figured you could get to me through the death of Watson."

"And we did. I can see that. You're not the same as you once were. You used to be emotionless and cold hearted. Now, I've had reports from my men saying you talk to Watson as if he's still there. You're mental, Holmes. You know it. Watson isn't there. He's not a ghost or whatever you think you're talking to. You're mad!"

"Maybe."

Jack pulled out a knife.

Watson felt the strange feeling of dread creep slowly towards him like a monster. He felt stupid for thinking he was emotionless. Of course he would still be hurt to see Holmes die. Especially like this. But there was little he could do now. The only thing he could think of was to try and unbind him, but Holmes couldn't take on all the men by himself and Watson couldn't help much. Holmes would still die.

For once, Holmes would not come out of an investigation alive. He would die in his brother's home and when Mycroft found him...oh, the poor man would be devastated. Even Watson could see, in the few times he had seen him that Mycroft Holmes cared for Sherlock very much, though he would never admit it.

Even if it was for Mycroft's sake only, Watson had to try _something. _

VVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Cliffhanger! AHH! I have the PERFECT ending, thank much to HLotD. Next chapter could be the last! I may have an epilogue...but I need your opinions. Please review!

**MY NEXT PROJECT**: Finishing my rewrite of a the jack the ripper story of mine and then onto a never ending story...literally. For the BBC Sherlock series, I'm starting to write a story that begins at the ending of the crazily-cliffhangered episode "The Great Game" and just following what I consider their day to day life to be...probably in the form of John Watson's blog...maybe. I need OPINIONS!


	13. Chapter 13

**Hello everyone:** this is the LAST chapter. I was going to write and epilogue but i don't think that is necessary now... Thank you to everyone who has read and reviewed. You really make me smile.

**WARNING**: this chapter may make you cry. It's the last, and therefore the most dramatic. Will I kill Holmes? Or not? It could go either way...

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Holmes could see everything. He could see Watson and his expression of panic plaguing his face. He knew his friend felt helpless, utterly useless. It was clearly showing. Like looking through new glass or crystal blue water, you could see everything Watson was feeling.

Jack, who Holmes ignored until now, took up his knife in his hand. Wordlessly, but with an expression that said enough, he dragged it along Holmes' arm.

That was only the first cut. There were many more that followed immediately. Blood began flowing from gashes on his body. Those were nothing because while jack was cutting his skin, the other men began pulling fingernails.

The detective watched Watson, not Jack, as the criminal carved his arms till they were covered in red and beat him till he was blue under the crimson blood. He could hear Watson's distant cries for him to fight back but it didn't seem to register in his mind the way it would have a while ago. Not with the pain he was trying so hard to fight-and the guilt.

Always guilt.

Holmes figured his brain must have partially shut down with the blood loss, therefore, he could not fully listen to his friend the way he would have liked to. Besides, he was bound to the chair he sat in with ropes and knots.

He silently begged for Watson to remain strong. If he wasn't, Holmes reasoned that there was little chance of him being any stronger. It wouldn't matter anyways. When he died here-and he _would _die here- everything would be over and it wouldn't matter whether or not he was strong in his last hours. Besides, exactly how brave could you expect a man to be when they were being sliced and beaten?

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Watson was always watching. He wanted to pull his eyes away but Holmes' pleading gaze held his stare. Holmes was being burned and beaten right in front of him and he couldn't do anything. He felt so helpless. He was surprised Holmes had actually lasted this long. With the blood loss and injuries to his head, Watson figured his friend should be long dead. But here he was. Alive. But not for long...

Holmes only stared. Usually, the doctor would find himself uncomfortable being watched so intently but it seemed only right to be with his friend in his last moments. It was only right to be watching him.

However, in Watson's concentration, he didn't notice the room quiet down. He didn't notice the stares of not only Holmes-but everyone...but he noticed the horrified cries.

"John Watson?" one of the men asked? His voice was dripping with terror.

Watson didn't know what had happened but all of a sudden, everyone was staring at him in awe with the exception of Holmes who wore the same distant expression he had been showing throughout his torture, which he supposed was now over, to his great joy.

But there was no time for joy. Jack, regaining his composure, took up the knife again and threw it at Watson. It, of course, passed through him and fell tot eh floor behind him.

"Jack, we've got to go."

"Not yet!" Jack yelled. "You're all idiots! If Holmes is alive, he'll have you hanged. You don't leave till he's good and dead."

Watson felt as if he was going to panic, but now that he was visible, he couldn't show his concern for his dear friend. He masked his worry with bravery.

"Don't you touch him. I'll kill you!"

The doctor was slightly surprised at his own firm tone, matching the voice of Jack. And from this, Jack knew he was serious. The other men fled. Apparently, they knew the rope was a better death than anything Watson had for them. Smart.

He stared into Jack's cold eyes and Jack stared right back. The knife glinted as the criminal raised it in the air towards Holmes, eyes still on Watson's. Watson didn't wait. Immediately, he pried the knife from Jack and held it to him, threatening him.

With the weapon out of the way, Watson sliced at the ropes that bound him.

"Thank you." Holmes said. He tried to stand but on wobbling legs. This didn't surprise either of them, as his legs were near broken and absolutely covered in blood.

Suddenly, Holmes was falling forward as his legs lost strength. He tried to grab hold of Watson but to his surprise, the hand passed right through. Watson, however, took hold of Holmes before he hit the ground and supported him as they stood together, facing Jack.

"I think it only goes one way," he began, "I can touch but nothing can touch me."

"Well, if it were any other way, you know that I would shake you warmly by the hand. Thank you, my dear Watson."

"Not at all. Now, what shall we do with _him_?" He pointed to Jack who stood awaiting their sentence in the corner of the room. _Pathetic..._thought Watson.

Holmes took the knife and on unstable legs, walked slowly over to the man.

"I think, my dear Watson, that he shall suffer enough in Hell, since we now all know there is, indeed, an afterlife. So I will make this quick, regardless of what I want to do-I just don't have the energy."

In one quick slash, Holmes had cut open the throat of his torturer. It would have been a victorious moment had Holmes had energy to celebrate with...and if Watson could concentrate.

In the second Jack's neck ripped open, he began to feel a haze-like sensation. Somehow, he knew exactly what was happening to him. His clouded vision, his stomach lurching like he was nervous, his hearing subjective...he was 'moving on.' Advancing. Proceeding. Evolving. Enhancing, whatever it was called. He was going to leave.

"Holmes, something is wrong. Well, not so much wrong but more..." he searched for the word, "changing."

"What do you mean, Watson?"

"Holmes, I think I'm going to the afterlife-the real one. Heaven, hell, whatever. I'm leaving."

"Don't" Holmes said. His face showed pure sorrow. Not even pain.

Despite Watson's impairments, he observed Holmes' weakened state. No doubt he'd be dead soon, too. His arms were badly cut, missing at least three fingernails, ribs broken, lungs most likely punctured, legs bleeding along with most of his other limbs and his torso. There was also a large gash on his head where one of the men had struck him. Yes, he wouldn't live the night.

"Let me help you." He said, as he lowered Holmes to sit with him against the wall.

"Thank you, Watson. You're fine, by the way. You're not leaving. Please, stay with me until I'm gone too."

Watson tried to instil a sense of hope in his dying friend.

"You'll be fine. You're not going to die. You'll live Holmes, you'll live." He said, though he wasn't entirely sure who he was trying to prove this to. His voice was cracking and he thought he might cry but he held it in to be strong. This would all be over soon anyways. No more reasons to cry. They would be together in the afterlife as brothers forever. And Watson wouldn't have it any other way.

"Don't give me false hope. I'll be dead within the next few hours. I only hope it's sooner rather than later."

"Don't say that."

"Well, we both know it."

Watson can feel himself slipping further and further away from reality. Everything feels as if you are just about to fall asleep. That strange comatose-like state where you hear everything but it's distant. All things to be seen or heard were foggy but all too clear. He didn't understand.

Holmes spoke.

"Goodbye, Watson. I'll see you soon."

Watson muttered a reply and in the exact moment that he slipped away, Holmes, too, closed his eyes forever. Both disappeared together, as it should have been in the beginning. This death was a peaceful death, but really it was a peaceful start to a new life. An afterlife which neither of them was prepared for; but they would face it together. They would protect each other as brothers did whether it was necessary or not.

Therefore, it was only appropriate that the last thing Holmes ever heard was Watson's reply.

"I'm still watching you."

THE END!

VVVVVVVVVVVVVVV

Please please please tell me what you think...come on...in celebration of the last chapter, give me a review. Thank you everyone who read and reviewed and thank you VERY much to the late Sir Arthur Conan Doyle who is the "best and wisest" man of all time.

Keep watch for my newest story coming soon for the BBC Sherlock series. It's a neverending story (literally...I just upload random little bits every now and again) that has bits of sherlock and john's everyday life that begins at the season finale cliffhanger involving the gun, moriaty, and john strapped to the bomb. *screams*

Farewell, my dear readers *giggles* and thank you again for just being your wonderful selves.

Very Sincerly Yours,

Myelle White


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